“You mind, good my Lady, the day that you went with Master Pynson to hear a sermon in Bostock Church?”
“I trow I shall not lightly forget it,” was Margery’s answer.
“Master Sastre was a-preaching, was he not?”
“Ay. Wherefore?”
“My Lady, he suffered death this forenoon by burning.”
“Master Sastre! Who told thee?”
“Christopher it was that told me,—and yon evil man—for sure, though he be a holy priest, yet is he an evil man, or would he never else have so dealt with your Ladyship—yon evil man, Abbot Bilson was there, and did sore press Master Sastre for to have confessed his error; but Master Sastre did maintain the same to the end.”
Margery turned away her head. The venerable image of Sastre rose up before her, as he learned forward over the pulpit to say those last earnest words.
“Ah, dear old teacher!” she whispered to herself. “Thou wilt not have long to look among the multitude in the white apparel, for one face which was upturned to thee that day!”